


Crying Wolf

by milliebrown



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milliebrown/pseuds/milliebrown
Summary: A horror story about a yappy dog and an owner who's sick of entertaining his nonsense.
Kudos: 6





	Crying Wolf

Don’t get me wrong; I love my dog. Devin. In most eminent danger scenarios, like a large animal attack, I always imagine putting myself in front of this would be furry assailant and my little rat of a dog. The grump is a mere seven pounds and is afraid of moving leaves in the wind. I love him, dearly. He’s my only friend. My point: I don’t see him through rose-colored glasses. 

He’s a jackass.   
  
A classic Chihuahua. 

He loves me more than anything in this world, and even I can do wrong.   
  
Tan colored. With one dense stripe running down his spine, continuing into his tail, one shade darker than his toasted gold fur. His tail sports a few randomly placed black spots. Two white front paws. Ears, slightly too big for his head-- and super cute. 

Afraid of his own shadow, and reflection. Afraid of cords, afraid of raw-hides he’s eaten a dozen times before. The clingiest, most manipulative animal I’ve ever had the pleasure of taking care of in my life. 

Naturally, he barks at any old thing. I can tell him to hush until I’m blue in the face and he won’t heed me. I’ve seen this dog run full speed down our pantry hallway, barking and huffing like he is set to kill; all at nothing! He bluntly tells you when he’s done being pet with low, throaty growls. And in the next few moments be begging for your attention with some high pitched crying, goblin clawed paw swipes and adorable puppy eyes. 

Manipulative son-of-a-bitch. 

He cries for attention and then he cries wolf. 

That Monday, the Monday after Valentine's day, I had been practicing ignoring his outbursts. “Attention is attention,” as Victoria Stilwell would advise; famous, stern, a British dog trainer. Especially to a dog as needy as mine: any attention is good attention. So I figured if I stopped scolding him the moment he started acting out, maybe the behavior would diminish. 

I live in a two-story house. Though, I technically live in a renovated part of the house's three-car garage. My grandparents own the house and mostly reside upstairs. 

Just like any other night, I walked out into the house via the door going in through the laundry room. My dog taking his sweet time, stretching as he goes, before he continues his trot at my heels. 

By the time I made it to the kitchen, Devin had stopped just before the pantry hallway, growling low, barking under his breath at some imaginary threat on the stairs. 

Quickly, before he started to go full Cujo, waking my grandparents, I came back with the reason I came out in the first place: a water. Out of habit, I went, “Ah-ah-ah! Stop it!” as I held out my hand, pointing for him to go back the way he came. 

Stubborn as he is, he refused to listen. Making me pick him up before he could get really loud. Still grumbling as I shut the laundry room. Even as I closed my own door and locked it. Another old-habit I had from years and years of my elders waltzing into my room whenever they felt like it. Even now, as an adult who pays rent. If I wish to not be disturbed in the morning or walked in on as I’m changing, then I’d better lock the damn door. 

With my water on my bedside table, I was ready for bed. Devin was still wound up. It took much coaxing to get the dog to relax and try to go to bed. Under the covers in his usual spot tucked into my side, he was still complaining. Confident that he would settle down sooner than later, I popped in my earbuds, turned on my favorite ASM-artist and drifted to sleep. 

As I drifted, I could not hear him, but I could feel his body expand and deflate. Still softly boofing. 

Morning came. I woke to a sleeping dog and my headphones wrapped around my neck and a nearly dead cellphone. Devin’s attitude was much better. Happy to be awake, whine yawning, stretching, and inching his way out from under the blanket. 

Just like any other morning, I walked out into the house expecting to hear the T.V., smell coffee, and hear my grandparents discussing the news. I heard nothing and smelled... cold. And felt it too, freezing cold. Chilling breezes ghosting across my neck. I was curious, not alarmed. Ready to go about my day as usual. Brush my teeth, pee, take the dog out to do the same, feed the dog... 

But on my way back from the kitchen my heart jumped into my throat. The front door was wide open. I became hyper-aware. Dark spots on the tile, on the rugs leading to the door, on the stairs. 

Sleepiness took a fast leave. Replaced by adrenaline and a hope that I might still be asleep. In the midst of a terrible nightmare. I kept Devin close in one hand, dialed 911 with the other. Cautiously stepped towards the open door.

A note was crudely stapled to the old dark wood: 

_“Should’ve heeded your dog's warning. They were still breathing when I left.”_


End file.
